


Fight or Flight

by Thatkindoffangirl



Series: Metal Gear Solid POV challenge [6]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Dry Humping, Humiliation, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:58:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1903314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatkindoffangirl/pseuds/Thatkindoffangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ocelot puts up a fight. He doesn’t think it’s a smart move, he doesn’t weigh chances or benefits of success, and yet when John steps forward, his hands reaching to the zipper of his sneaking suit, he shoves him away with all his strength, squirming at the pain that sears through the cut in his stomach. It’s useless. John staggers backwards a few steps, gapes at his reaction, and suddenly he is dashing forward again, seizing Ocelot’s wrists just as he raises his fists to hit him."</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Written for the POV challenge. Prompt is Bosselot/bondage/Ocelot's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight or Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by pudding-'s fanart of Ocelot in a sneaking suit (http://pudding-.tumblr.com/post/14280749893/ocelot-in-a-sneaking-suit-i-combined-bits-from).

Ocelot puts up a fight. He doesn’t think it’s a smart move, he doesn’t weigh chances or benefits of success, and yet when John steps forward, his hands reaching to the zipper of his sneaking suit, he shoves him away with all his strength, squirming at the pain that sears through the cut in his stomach. It’s useless. John staggers backwards a few steps, gapes at his reaction, and suddenly he is dashing forward again, seizing Ocelot’s wrists just as he raises his fists to hit him.

“You’re being ridiculous!” John’s breath rasps against Ocelot’s face as he is slammed against the locker. The rattling sound of steel echoes through the room along with their voices. No one is there to notice.

“It‘s a fucking scratch,” Ocelot's voice is still broken by the hit. He spins his knee forward just as John’s hips twist to avoid it. John is quick enough to slide his hand under it, lifting him over.

Ocelot curses. The world turns around. He cries in pain as his skin puckers over the wound cutting across his abdomen; he grabs John’s shoulder, but the sleek fabric of the sneaking suit doesn’t offer any hand hold. He loses his grasp on him as his feet lose theirs on the ground. His whole body is falling and then there is pain again. When he hits the floor, it stings through his shoulder, then zaps throughout his body, traveling along his arms and torso, scorching through his stomach with an intensity that makes his vision burn white. He bites his cheeks, tries not to scream. There are stars flying in front of his eyes, everything is blurry. He throws a fist at the figure in front of him and John catches it way too easily. He twists it, dragging the whole torso along with the movement, pinning Ocelot’s hand on the middle of his back just as he catches the other one and shoves it along the other.

“Fucking leave me alone, John!” Ocelot says. He wrings his body under John’s hold, but John shifts his whole weight on his hands, flattening him on the ground.

“I just want to ch—” John curses. Ocelot’s spurs are sticking in his flesh, and Ocelot is happy he insisted on keeping them. John growls in anger, and Ocelot’s pride rises along with the man’s temper. He laughs, and there’s pain in his stomach again; he moans, and John’s shakes his head as he slides a cord around Ocelot’s wrists. “I just want to check the wound if you can stop acting like a child for a second,” he says.

Ocelot mumbles. John turns him around. There is worry on his face as he looks at him from above, and a kindness in his eye that makes Ocelot realize how much John cares. The thought makes him happy, and the happiness makes him sick. He tries to kick him away, but John is sitting on top of his legs, forcing them on the ground. He snarls forward, tries to bite John’s hand, but the pain in his stomach flares up and he arches away with it just as the zipper of his suit slides open.

It’s when he starts to panic.

What he wants is to go away. Nausea crawls through him along with John’s touch, his skin burning where John’s fingers touch to pry his uniform open — he tries to tell himself that he’s disgusted, but the truth is he wants more and not having it hurts. He bites the soft flesh inside his cheeks, tries to focus on something else, anything else. John’s fingers are circling around his wound; as they gently pull on his skin there is pain going to his brain and pain doesn’t help. He wants more again. He always wants more. There are words pushing on the back of his throat and he only knows they want him to beg, he doesn’t know whether for release or for intensity and both are not good. He clenches his mouth shut, hoping that he never has to open it.

“It looks superficial,” John says and Ocelot is glad he is so focused on his stomach for he can feel blood rushing to his face as John gently wipes away the one near the wound. “Your skin goes in the way as you move, and the sweat is making it burn more. That’s why it hurts so much.”

Ocelot’s teeth are sunk in his cheeks. He wants nothing more but to breathe, to inhale and exhale, calm himself down. John’s palm is pressing on his stomach and even he couldn’t have helped but notice. He turns his face around, counting the tiles on the floor.  

“I know,” he mutters.

It’s useless. Pain is there again as John dab medicines on him —he always has a first-aid kit in that damn suit— and this time the pain’s right under John’s fingers and it’s like the pain is John himself and Ocelot wishes for him to do it on purpose. He looks down, then wishes he hadn’t. He focuses on the tiles again, the image of John's fingers smeared in his blood burned in his mind.

“Just get some nurse—” John pinches his wound close as he slides a closure strip on it; Ocelot mumbles “—to put some antibiotic and stitch it up—” another strip joins the first one, and John runs his thumb over it, flattening it on Ocelot’s skin “— and you’ll be fine in no—”

“I know I’ll be fine, John!” Ocelot snaps. He doesn’t like snapping and yet he likes this whole charade even less. “What did I tell you?”

Grunting, John applies another strip, then another one, closing the wound before speaking again.

“What you told me, Ocelot,” he says eventually, "was: ‘fuck you, John, you are not my goddamned babysitter’.”

“We could switch this whole place to a nursery if you feel military life becoming too stressful.” Ocelot laughs. He tries to make it genuine, but even he is surprised at how mechanical he sounds. John’s hand is now resting to the side of his stomach, painfully close to his crotch.

“I am in charge here, Ocelot," John says, his eyes trailing on the floor. "I would appreciate it if I could trust you to truthfully assess your status.”

“But I did truthfully assess my status. You are the one who insisted I didn’t.”

Silence. Ocelot scoffs. His arms are getting numb. He pins himself on his elbows, tries to haul his torso up to look at John directly. The wound is still throbbing, but he ignores it. John is still looking somewhere else, and Ocelot can feel the whole situation chipping at his patience. It’s already ridiculous enough for him to be trying to convince John he has told the truth, but it’s even worse for this whole thing to happen with John’s hand so close to his penis. He wiggles on the floor, carefully trying to slide away without alerting John of his intentions.

“It would just be easier to take you seriously if you didn’t get a boner every time you are hurt.”

It’s not like Ocelot to be at a loss for words. His whole body is frozen. “How did—”

“I still have one eye left, and trust me it’s more than enough.” John shakes his head. He turns around, staring right through Ocelot with his eye unfocused, “Is that why you didn’t want me to have a look?”

Ocelot sneers. He doesn’t know what to say, and sneering always helps. Sneering and acting like an idiot. “Ocelots are proud—” His hands moves automatically, but find themselves still tied in the rope. He never finishes the sentence.

John rises to his feet again without listening to him swinging his arm back and forth as he looks down at Ocelot, apparently deep in thought.

“Don’t leave me like this!” Ocelot protests.

John stops. His eyes are once again on that same spot on the floor. He rummages in his pocket, searching for something, and Ocelot sighs in relief. He turns around, extends his hands to give John easy access to them. As he presses his burning face against the cold tiles he is just glad he has a chance to hide it, that it will soon be over. He hears the click of a lighter, and when he looks back he's surprised to see a cigar between John's lip.

“John, fucking u—!” He swings on his back again just as John’s foot sets on his hip.

“Do you want me to untie you, Ocelot?” John asks. He takes a draw off his cigar, runs the smoke around his mouth before blowing it out again. “Or was it something else you meant?”

Ocelot holds his breath again. Before Ocelot can even answer, John’s heel starts following the line of the zipper, pushing it further open; the tip of the shoe circles around the navel, brushes against the just-completed stitching. Another jolt of pleasure runs along Ocelot’s spine as the plastic strips are gently pulled, then John flattens his foot on his crotch and he can’t help but moan.

“Shit, John—” The pressure is making him painfully aware that he is hard. He has been for a while, and yet it's only now that he fully realized what John's touch has done to him. He wiggles again, sliding to get away. It doesn’t work. His penis just seems to grow harder as every sensation hits him: the texture of John’s foot dragging on him, the burning sensation of the rubber as it keeps it in place... he feels lost. He twists his hips sideways trying to shake John off him, trying to shove him away. A new a pang of pain slices through his wound, sends chills down his stomach; cold sweat is glistening on his forehead. He blinks fast, tries to calm himself down. “—don’t mess with me!”

“Thought you were too proud to allow me to.” John says. He moves his cigar forward, hanging it over Ocelot’s face, tapping on it to make ashes fly down.

Ocelot’s hands move automatically to shield him, but the cord keeps them in place. He roars in frustration. “Get the fuck off!”

“Why?” John asks. He pushes down on Ocelot’s cock with all the strength in his hips. “Didn’t you want me to know exactly what kind of animal you are?”

“You—” Ocelot bites his lips. His face is burning. He wants this to never stop, and yet he'd give anything to end it. “—are fucking dead!”

“I think it's clear to both of us what you want,” John says. He rocks his foot forward, almost imperceptibly. "But I am not going to ask."

There is a moment of hesitation in Ocelot’s mind. He pins himself on his elbows again, trying to catch a glimpse of John’s crotch, to decide the extent he is toying with him. It’s useless. The leg is shielding his cock from Ocelot’s view, there is no telling what John’s intentions are and Ocelot hates himself for even trying. What does he cares what he thinks? Is he looking for an excuse, is he looking to tell himself this is something more intimate, that they are actually sharing something? He curses, flattens himself on the floor again.

Then, he rocks his hips forward.

It’s a slow movement at first. He focuses his mind on the pleasure, on the sensation of his skin rubbing against the sole, pressing on John’s foot. It’s the best way to go, not thinking, grinding on John’s boot and forgetting about what he’s doing. His arms are hurting. He forgets about them too. There is a jolt through his spine each time the skin of his penis slides over its head and that is the only thing he thinks about. That, and the sensation of the muscles on his stomach as they clench together, stretching the skin over his wound, burning, throbbing and stinging, sending waves of pleasure through him with each jolt of pain. He starts moving fast. Too fast.

“You are reopening your wound.” John says.

He looks down, then wishes he hadn’t. There is blood dripping down his stomach, spread over by his own movements, crawling inside the rifts of his muscles. Pleasure zaps through his brain at the vision, his back arches back again and he has to clench his mouth shut to keep himself from moaning.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He blinks, hoping to clear the image from his mind, to gain control again. His hips are now moving on their own, the pleasure still growing, the wound still pulsing.  

“Your priorities are skewed, Ocelot.” John says. He drags another puff of smoke. There is an unimpressed look on him and Ocelot’s hands tingle despite their numbness, craving to claw it out of his face. It turns him on even more. “First you’d rather fight me than risking me seeing you turned on, then you hump my foot like a dog.”

It’s not the insult that hits him, but his erection growing stronger at it.

“Son of a b—” He shakes his head. There is so much going on, John’s feet on his crotch, the image of blood in his eyes, John's insult echoing in his ears. He wants to fight , to destroy it all, but his hands are tied; he wants to go away, to run through that door and never look at John again, but his body is keeping him there. Everything is contrasting, swirling, hitting him from all directions and the only thing he knows for certain is that his hips are moving, and John’s foot is crushing his penis and he is getting close, so close to com—

He lets out a cry as he finds the pressure gone, his hips humping the air.

“Goddammit, John!” he yells.

The foot is floating on top of Ocelot, just outside of his reach; Ocelot knows it’s useless but his hips keep thrusting towards it as if they could reach it.

“Beg for it,” John says.

Ocelot’s hands tingle with rage again. He digs his fingernails in his fists to resist. “Go to hell.”

John laughs. He moves his foot down on the floor, kneeling over Ocelot. He never stops staring at him, his expression still unreadable, his face still twisted in a distant grin that doesn’t suit him at all and that can’t help but making Ocelot’s insides twist around themselves. He places his other leg between Ocelot’s, and as he leans toward him, Ocelot can feel the warmth of John's thigh getting closer to his crotch. His hips ache with the need to start humping again, and yet he keeps them steady. If John thinks he is going to be so easy to—

He sinks his teeth in his lips.

John is smoking again. He takes the cigar to his mouth, hums with pleasure as he takes a long drag from it. Savouring the smoke, John takes the stub between his eyes, as if to measure exactly how much is left. He seems to decide he's had enough because the next he does is rolling it around his fingers, holding it straight as he lowers it toward Ocelot’s face. The movement is painfully and purposely slow. The red of the flame burns between the gray ashes as the cigar slowly descending towards Ocelot's face, dancing in the middle of his vision. His brain tells him, once again, to run. And yet he doesn’t. He closes his eyes. If that’s what John wants, he—

The heat barely brushes against his cheek as John twists off the cigar against the ground.

“It’s time you learn how insignificant your pride is,” he says.

For a while, nothing really happens. Ocelot's eyes travel to the cigar, then to John’s face again. He looks at him and John looks back. His stare is blank, but Ocelot knows there is much more to it, that John never does anything without some kind of purpose. John doesn't like wasting time, John doesn't enjoy seeing people squirm for the sake of it. And yet, when he tries to move down, to close the distance between his crotch and John’s leg, John slides further down, keeping their bodies apart.

“I’m not going to ask,” he had said before, and Ocelot knows he is not going to spare him any ounce of humiliation.

“Please,” Ocelot asks. He is not used to asking. He tries to keep his expression neutral, yet his cheeks are flushing red again.

John doesn’t move.

Ocelot growls in frustration. He takes a deep breath, tries again:

“Please, John, let me—” he stops.

“—hump your leg like a dog,” it’s what he was going to say, and yet his voice dies in his mouth when he realizes these are not his words. They are John's. Is that what he wants to hear? He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. There is a limit to how much he can take, and the knowledge of this is even more humiliating than everything he has done before. He throws his head back, trying to avoid John’s eye. Sweat is glistening on his forehead, the pain and the arousal making his body temperature skyrocket.

“—let me come,” he says eventually.

It seems to be enough.

John’s leg moves forward, flattens it against Ocelot’s penis. Warmth comes rushing in waves along Ocelot’s body, his brain gets hazy again. And then there is more. There is shame. For a second he wonders if he can stop, yell at John once again to release him, be over with all this nonsense. He looks up at him. When did he get such a fucking good poker face?

Sure, Ocelot thinks, he can try to resist more. He can tell John to fuck off, get up despite the throbbing pain in his erection, despite how everything in him wants nothing but to come. But deep inside he knows his resolve is going to fail again, that John will humiliate him more, punish him for even daring to try and escape. And Ocelot doesn’t want it. What he wants is to come there, against John’s leg, with John looking at him like he means nothing, like he doesn’t care. He closes his eyes, and pushes his hips up, then down, then up again. The pain soars throughout his body and this time he moans loudly, makes sure John hears him. If he wants to watch his humiliation, then Ocelot is going to give him all of it.

“Will you obey to your orders from now on?” John's voice is enough for his head to spin. Behind his closed eyes, Ocelot knows John is looking and yet he doesn’t try to keep his face straight.

“Yes,” he says in a short breath. There is no question in his mind. He is going to lick John’s boots, kiss the fucking ground he walks onto if he asks him to. Anything for this not to stop.

“Will you allow me to check your wounds when you are hurt?” John asks again.

Ocelot nods. He curses when John’s moves his leg backward, slightly out of reach again.

“Yes, John—” he chokes on his own words. “Yes!” he says. Too much enthusiasm. John’s leg is back on him and he grinds on it with all his strength, his ass not even touching the ground anymore. The wound hurts like crazy but it is good, so good — he straightens his back, stretching his skin to get better control of it, to make sure every stroke hits the right spot, makes his whole body scream with pain.

John moves closer to him, breathes the last question directly in his ear. “Will you let me fuck you next time?”.

It’s like a wave through Ocelot’s whole body. He finds himself gasping, unable to breathe. Heat flushes his cheeks, wraps around the base of his dick. He feels warmth spreading on his stomach before he even realizes he came. Cum drips over him, wets John’s pant and John is following it with his eyes and Ocelot wants to bury his face on the ground.

Instead, he looks up at John and for a second he catches a glimpse of desire in his eyes.

When he breathes again the air burns his lungs. He is back in the world. The pain is all over his body, in the arms which he cannot feel, in his throbbing wound, in his ego. He is empty, and ashamed and again everything is pulsing with the need to go away.

John is still looking at him, still not moving, and Ocelot wants nothing more than to snap again, to yell at him to let him go, to stop with the games, with all this humiliation. It’s only when the words are almost outside his mouth that the meaning of John’s look finally clicks.

“Yes,” he says instead. His voice is raspy, and he hopes that is enough to mask his happiness.

He only realizes how much all this has meant to him when he sees John smiling at him from above.

“If there is one thing I hope, Ocelot,” he says, “is that the pride you have left is enough for you to keep this promise.”


End file.
